


Chivalry

by Catherine_Medici



Series: Time Agents [1]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Chivalry, F/M, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4990966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherine_Medici/pseuds/Catherine_Medici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a love story. Knights in shining armor, windswept English hillsides, damsels in distress, terrifying foes. How will Red and Lizzie deal with being thrown back in time to King Arthur's Camelot? AU depending on your grip on reality. I lost mine years ago... Lizzington</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful FilmsAreFriends
> 
> All mistakes are mine  
> Disclaimed  
> If you come at me with historical inaccuracies I will chase you down the street with my sonic screw driver :P  
> That said, thanks to NeedTheDark for letting me use her Arthurian obsession to get this one moving along!

* * *

 

It had started out so _well_. Her relationship with Reddington as of late had been so up and down, so fraught with tension, misunderstandings and deeply hurt feelings. Perhaps even on both sides, she’d been fair enough to acknowledge, if only to herself.

So she’d been more than glad when he’d arrived at the post office that morning, beaming from ear to ear, a new blacklister’s name tripping off of his tongue. She hadn't seen a smile on his face for some time. She had found herself responding to his smile with a small one of her own.

She frowned now, her back against a wall, her gun held close to her as she craned her neck to get a look out the corner of her eye for any movement to her right.

There, in the next room. Movement. She was sure she’d seen the reflection of a body crawling across the room in the mirror that hung above the blackened marble fireplace. She cautiously moved towards the door, catching Ressler’s eye as he entered the room she was in from the other door. She jerked her head to the larger room occupied by their target, putting a finger to her lips to indicate they'd need stealth.

She had meant to really try with this blacklister, to get a hold on her hostility, or at least channel it into more productive feelings. It wasn’t Red’s fault she was alone and miserable, with a failed marriage under her belt. She just couldn't help but associate him sometimes with everything that had changed for the worse the day she’d started this job.

He’d brought so much pain with his introduction into her life. She had nothing left now but the job. Her friends had deserted her, some of them paid actors courtesy of Berlin, others too confused and uneasy to continue their friendship with one half of the couple that had exploded so spectacularly into their nice suburban existences. He’d brought all this with him and taken so much away.

Still, he was the only one left who could make her laugh.

So she’d tried. She’d chosen to trust him when he’d said that he had another case for them. A case that would take them to London.

“Only Agent Keen on this one,” Red had demanded arrogantly.

Cooper had vetoed that immediately. Not a chance in hell. Ressler was coming along. If he wouldn't take Ressler in his jet, both agents would be flying coach.

Red had huffed and thrown his hands about, pacing the war room, arguing his point, giving little ground and gaining some concessions for the mission, offering only basic details. He’d ensured his continued involvement with the case by withholding the bulk of the pertinent information on The Executive. He hadn't even bothered with a reason for his reticence, just claiming he wanted to keep a close watch on the proceedings. He’d even taken a sly dig at _both_ agent’s capabilities. Her lips had tightened at that.

She’d noticed the gleam in his eyes as he'd left the post office and had felt strangely uneasy. Why did he look so satisfied? There had been a number of restrictions placed on him by Cooper in order to get the green light for this one. He should be annoyed, instead he looked like a cat with a bowl of milk.

She knew now. Originally a VIP for a large weapons manufacturing corporation, The Executive had been dealing under the table to certain unsavory rebel governments.  He was impossible to catch, obfuscating and double tracking as he made his millions, perhaps even billions.

Red loathed this particular type of duplicity. The devil masquerading as an angel. She should have known this would get personal when she’d learned about this blacklister. She should have remembered Floriana Campo. But she’d trusted him and he’d gone ahead without the backup of the FBI, to the grand old mansion in the English countryside. To capture him, to settle scores.

This man had been the reason a number of villages in Nairobi had been massacred. Villages where Red’s associates dwelled with their families. Some, quite important to his operations.

It was his job to protect the people that worked for him. An attack on them was an attack on him. And he was using the FBI to settle this particular score, it seemed.

So where was he?

She signalled to Ressler. They’d go in together, capture their target and look for Red. He had to be somewhere in the massive mansion. It was practically a castle. She hoped he was in one of the main rooms. If he’d decided to go into one of the tunnels they’d documented as existing under this place, they may never find him.

On the count of three.

One.

 _Where was he?_ Her chest felt tight with worry.

Two.

_He’d better be okay, dammit. It wasn't like him to go ahead into danger without backup from Dembe at the very least._

Three.

They burst in, screaming: “FBI!”

She stopped short. Shock swelling up in her.

Red. It was Red on the ground crawling across the floor. He had looked up at their sudden and aggressive entrance. He was looking worse for wear, but still reaching for something in the corner of the room. A hammered gold wine glass, tipped over onto its side.

She flew to him, unthinking. His hand closed around the object on the carpet just as she reached him, her own hand circling the bare skin of his wrist.

She was surrounded by blinding light.

Her whole body felt as though she’d been sucked through a vacuum, her head pounded as though it were being squeezed in a vice. She moaned in pain, desperately trying to quell the nausea that had bubbled up in her. She felt herself tipping, a helpless rag doll on a ferris wheel rolling over and over, unable to seize on a foot or handhold.

 

* * *

 

She woke up on the side of a hill, shivering and as sore and weak as if she’d run a marathon. Her eyes were blurry and took a moment to come into focus again. When they did focus, she saw Red lying on his back only a few feet from her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his face turned towards her.

“Lizzie?” Red croaked uncertainly.

She rarely heard him at a loss and it chilled her like the wind blowing around her could never hope to do.

“I’m here, I’m right here,” she reached out to touch him, to assure herself that he was really there. Where were they? There was nothing but grass and wildflowers blowing in the harsh wind.

“Ressler, he was with me.” She looked around, pulling herself painfully up into a sitting position. Nothing. There was just nothing. No mansion, no cars, no roads, and no Ressler.

Red sat up, crawling his way towards her slowly. “It would seem we are on our own.”

“Not where we were. Where is everything? Have we been drugged? What happened?” The questions tumbled over each other, her voice thick with burgeoning fear.

He didn't answer her, instead casting a glance at the surrounding countryside, a darker set than usual to his expression, but still a steady calm about him that soothed her just a fraction.

He looked at her, lines of concern around his eyes. “How do you feel? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, but I want to know where we are and who bought us here. We need to get back and find Ressler.”

“I don't know that that will be an option for the moment, Lizzie. Look around you. We aren’t anywhere near a town.”

He stood up slowly, his joints creaking audibly. She rose to help him but he shook her off, a slight grimace of irritation marring his features for a moment. “Let’s take a look around.”

They both trudged around the hilltop they had been lying on moments ago, looking over the countryside for any sign for civilization. There were just fields as far as the eye could see.

They were completely alone.

“Let’s walk,” he said, an unfamiliar tone in his voice. Was that...a thread of fear she’d heard?

She steeled herself and walked with him.

And walked.

It took them over an hour to come across something other than blue sky and green hills.

A shepherd’s cottage. It wasn't locked, didn't even have a lock. They knocked furtively, not really expecting a response, opening the door when they received answering silence.

It wasn't just a shepherd's cottage. It was some sort of primitive shack, almost a museum of olden day artifacts. A strange wooden half barrel with a washboard sat in the corner. There was a roughly hewn table and two chairs in the middle of the room. Earthenware pottery lay neatly on the table. Against the far wall lay a straw pallet and a mountain of woolen blankets.

A loom sat next to the window, yarn still threaded through it.

She looked at Red and saw some sort of knowledge in his face as he surveyed the room and then raised his eyes to look back at her.

Her own face was pinched and white. “What the hell is going on?”

He frowned. “I’m not entirely sure yet.” He gave the room one last look and moved to leave. “Come, there’s nothing here of use. We’ll need to keep walking.”

“Red! What did you do? Where are we?”

He stood motionless at the door of the cottage, his eyes fixed on a distant hill. She ducked under his arm to get a look at whatever it was that had captured his attention.

She saw them. Five or so men on horseback, clad in chain mail and tunics of sky blue and golden yellow.

“Red, I swear to god,” she whispered hoarsely. “If you’ve slipped me something. If I’m on something, you are going to regret it.”

He shook his head wordlessly. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The horseback riders had clearly seen them and were cantering quickly toward them now.

“Alright, Lizzie, listen to me,” he said urgently. “I need you to not overthink this, just trust me for the time being. There is a possibility that we have gone back in time.”

She snorted despite the fear churning in her belly. He could always make her laugh.

“Now is not the time for laughter...” he slanted a look at her, “...or attitude. I need you to follow my lead here.”

“Stop treating me like an idiot,” she hissed. “You've obviously gotten what you wanted here today by drugging me and probably Ressler too. How far are you going to push this? Just take me back to the hotel. I’m sore and hungry, and I’d like to wrap this mission up.”

He sighed. “Lizzie, the CIA and successive governments have hidden extraterrestrials from us successfully. Why not time travel? It’s something I’ve heard rumors of only, but the rumors came from sources I trust.”

The men were close now. Too close to continue the conversation.

Red waved a hand at them.

“Hail, friend!” The leader of the bunch sang out.

“Good morning,” rang Red’s rich baritone.

“It is indeed a good morning,” the man acting as their leader smiled easily. He was blonde with a neat, thick beard, and full lips with rosy cheeks which gave him the look of a cherub, rather than a knight.

“My name is Sir Lancelot du Lac. May I have the honor of knowing to whom it is I speak?”

“Raymond Reddington,” he responded smoothly as if some joker out of a fairy tale hadn't just ridden a horse straight up to him and introduced himself as Sir Lancelot.

 **  
**  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The other men riding with the fellow styling himself as Sir Lancelot had gathered round. _They honestly looked like a bunch of boys in the schoolyard quizzing the new kids_ , she thought with amusement.

Sir Lancelot’s interested gaze had wandered to her now. “Is this…” he hesitated, his eyes traveling the length of her business suit. “Your son?”

She stiffened. Son?

A meaty laugh rang out behind Lancelot. “Friend, have you eyes in your head? It’s a daughter, don't you see?”

She felt Red shift slightly. “She’s not my daughter,” he said flatly.

She swallowed as the demeanor of the men save for Lancelot visibly changed. They were hyena’s that had just smelt a carcass for the taking. Suddenly they were looming in their saddles, rather than sitting placidly.

Red had noticed too. “She’s my wife,” he bit out warningly, “Elizabeth Reddington.”

It was comical, how they straightened and nodded respectfully to her, murmured greetings muttered under their breaths.

They introduced themselves one by one.

Sir Bors, Sir Tor, Sir Tristan and Sir Ywain. Knights of the round table, they proclaimed proudly.

Oh hell.

* * *

"May we be of some assistance?" Inquired Lancelot gravely.

"I hesitate to put you to any trouble," Red responded carefully, "however, I had a wagon filled with very expensive goods. We were set upon by brigands some days ago and my livelihood was stolen. All we have left are the clothes we stand in.” He paused to clear his throat, gesturing to his suit. “Our clothes are from our time amongst the Turks...very unsuitable for the climate I'm afraid. I'd be in your debt if you could tell me where the nearest town is. I’ll need to...contact an usurer in the area."

She tilted her head slightly to glance at him from the corner of her eye.

Smooth, very smooth.

"We will gladly do much more than that! You must travel with us until we reach Camelot. We return to the court of King Arthur after some months now on a quest,” Lancelot offered grandly.

She cleared her throat, and reached for his arm. “Red, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

The men turned to her in surprise. Lancelot huffed a laugh. “Your wife sir, has some strong opinions, does she not?”

Red joined in the laughter, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Gentleman, we’d be grateful if we could travel with you. Can you spare a mount?”

At that, Lancelot and Ywain dismounted and set to reworking the baggage train. Each knight had a pack horse tethered behind him. It was simple work to rearrange the baggage so that one horse was now free. They’d need to share a horse.

“Have you ridden before?” Red whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

She gave him a withering look. “Have you completely forgotten who raised me? Sam taught me to ride, shoot, camp, and fish. I was a better marksman than he was by the time I was fourteen. Riding a horse? Piece of cake,” she said, vaulting easily onto the horse to startled looks from the knights.

Red’s mouth quirked into a smile as he watched her confidently take the reins. Perhaps it had been a stupid question.

They’d received some odd looks as he settled himself behind her on the horse, his hands low at her waist for stability, allowing her to guide them. He could ride...well he could get on a horse, and he knew where the reins were. All in all, Lizzie was doing a perfectly good job of it really.

He gripped her hips a little tighter as they gained pace, looking at the ground uneasily.

“How come you never asked for a pony? I would have arranged it,” he whispered.

She made a discontented noise in her throat. “Well I didn’t know at the time that Mr. Moneybags was bankrolling us.”

He chuckled, squeezing her gently in response.

They rode for the rest of the daylight hours, passing only one small hamlet in the marshes. She was glad they hadn't stopped there. It was muddy and smelly and the few people she saw looked despairing and fearful of their little party. She was sure there must be something a little more city-like ahead.

Although, admitting she had a preference for which town to stop at was not something she wanted to reflect on. This was still most likely a hallucination as a result of either Red's machinations or something...worse.

"What if it's the Cabal?” She asked in a low voice.

“What if what’s the Cabal?”

“What if we’ve been drugged by the Cabal. I have no way of knowing if even you’re just a hallucination. You could be,” she whispered fearfully.

He pinched her bottom.

"Ouch!"

"Do I feel real to you?"

"Don't do that again," she hissed,

"Lizzie, I know a man in clandestine services, worked with him in fact, before...well, just before. He feeds me the occasional piece of information regarding the Cabal. Usually he keeps on topic, names, players, places, outlines of plans. He's very useful. Has been for a long time. He has established credit with me and despite what you may think," he squeezed her slightly around her middle, "that's not an easy thing to obtain."

She adjusted herself in the saddle slightly, strangely reassured by his grip on her hips. Even the occasional squeeze was pleasant. His words though and that gentle press of his arms around her middle just now. Was he trying to say she had credit with him?

That was a pleasant thought...

And it annoyed her.

"It could still be you," she muttered, "for all I know, you intended to kidnap The Executive and pump him for information in some quiet little bolt hole where no one will interrupt. What were you doing in that place anyway? Was he even there?"

Red said nothing. She wasn't surprised.

"Where do you think Ressler is?"

"I thought you believed you're hallucinating? In that case, he's probably lying right beside you in some drug induced fugue."

"Maybe there was something in the room. Some sort of airborne hallucinogen. It might have been The Executive. Has he done anything like that before?"

Red pointed to the horizon. "That looks like a fairly large village. I'd chance that we'll be stopping there."

Lancelot rode up to them, observing Red’s pointed finger. “Yes, if it pleases you and your lady, we will procure rooms at an inn for the night. You may wish to seek out your usurer there. Do you have a signet ring?”

Red nodded, self assurance permeating his features.

They rode into town, hailed by the gatekeeper who was familiar with, if not them personally, at least knights wearing the tabard of the king.

“What were you saying about this man in clandestine services?”  She whispered.

“Shh, we’ll talk later.”

“You don't have a signet ring. What are we going to do? Sing for our supper?”

“Lizzie, shush. It’s fine.”

She seethed. Who was this man he’d spoken about? What did he know about what was happening? His usual non answers and half answers weren't going to cut it this time.

Her frustration with Red faded away as they rode into town. The main street was paved, the rest of the streets criss-crossing and doubling around the town were hard-packed dirt. The dust from the hooves of their horses was wafting up into their faces, distracting her momentarily as she waved it away. This place though, it  was so authentic. She could practically be in medieval England.

There was an uneasy thought. Could she really invent the detail that was popping up in front of her? Was this all in her head? The wooden framed houses, the smell of horse dung in the street, the cacophony of sound as traders shut down their stalls for the evening, grubby children running underfoot, chasing a squealing piglet down the street.

It was all very real.

They stabled the horses next door to a large, prosperous looking inn and went inside as a group.

Lancelot was thankfully using his reputation as one of the king's knights to secure rooms with little trouble for them. He'd brought the innkeeper over to them and explained their story. The innkeeper looked doubtfully at their clothing until Lancelot explained they'd been in far flung locations and were still clothed in the local attire from their travels.

She hoped that would continue to pass muster until Red could find clothing for them.

"Allow me to show you to your rooms," he said, following the lead of the knights in his manner toward them.

It was a relief, she wanted the privacy of this room so badly.

So when Red turned around to the innkeeper and asked for tubs to bathe in, she had to bite back a groan at his response. There was a bathing room downstairs they could use.

Resentfully, she trudged along with Red through the corridors. She was so tired, a bath was not on her list, but Red had insisted, suggesting she'd get lice or some disgusting disease if she didn't bathe regularly.

It had been awkward. There was no expectation that she'd need privacy from her husband so she'd been stuck in a small room with him while he stripped down with his back to her. She sat uncomfortably on a bench in the corner, her eyes averted.

"Lizzie," he said patiently, splashing into the water as he sat down in a wooden tub. "I'm not looking, just get in. We'll need to be mindful of cleanliness. Smallpox vaccine hasn't been on the list of routine vaccinations since before you were born. You need to be careful."

"You really believe we've somehow traveled in time? Into medieval England?" She scoffed.

"Just shy of medieval I'd say," he responded meditatively. "It seems like Christianity is only just taking hold. We rode past a small temple to a Pagan God on the way here. But there's also a monastery from the talk I heard amongst the ah...the Knights."

She looked up at him stonily, ready to ask again about the man he knew in clandestine services when she caught sight of his back.

She'd almost missed it. The sun had set, so most of the inn was in shadow, illuminated only by candlelight and the roaring fireplace in the small bathing chamber.

It was enough though.

"Red," she whispered, staring at his back.

He paused in the middle of vigorously soaping himself down, his back stiffening. He waited, not looking at her.

She stood and crept toward the tub, reaching her hand out to touch him before she could think to recall it.

He flinched. "Do you mind?"

"If you don't want to talk about it-"

"I don't," he said curtly.

She meekly turned to her tub, peeling her clothing off and neatly placing it on the bench. Silently she slipped into the water. It was still fairly hot, freshly poured by chambermaids. This particular inn clearly catered for the rich and well to do. Little luxuries like this may be few and far between in the future.

If they really were where Red said they were.

"So," she began tentatively, "how are you sure we're in medieval times?"

"Using the evidence of my own eyes."

"It's not possible, time travel, it's just not. It's a paradox."

"According to my contact, there has been definite chatter about it. Interestingly, I have been collecting information about it for some time, with great difficulty. It's very well guarded. But I hadn't expected to stumble upon it while on this case. There was nothing to suggest that when I-" he broke off as a knock was heard at the door.  

A chamber maid entered with fresh linen sheets to towel themselves off with.

When the door closed after the maid, Red heaved himself out of the tub unabashedly. She felt her cheeks grow hot as she caught a glimpse of his naked body dripping rivulets of water over the floor.

She glanced away, wondering about a few things that she had never thought of before.

“We’ll need to sleep in what we have for the moment. We can worry about clothes tomorrow”

She looked up at him. He’d dressed in his three piece suit again, looking slightly rumpled despite his best efforts. She smiled. “I’m ready to get out now.”

He nodded, turning his back as she stepped out of the tub and reached for a linen sheet.

She didn't let herself think of the implications of their situation as she dressed or as she followed him back to their room. She desperately clung to the idea that she was hallucinating as she got into bed beside Red.

He rolled over to the very edge of the large bed and blew the candle out.

“Goodnight Lizzie.”

“Night.”

 ****  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful FilmsAreFriends

* * *

 

Of all the hundreds of plans he had devised for every conceivable situation, it was deliciously ironic that he now found himself in a position where he had very little knowledge and no plans.

He clamped down on his anxiety, aware that fear would put blinders on him that could be nigh impossible to throw off if he let it get a foothold.

They sat in the small taproom of the inn, their stomachs both rumbling. They’d been so exhausted the night before that they hadn’t even thought of food and that was not his preferred mode of operation.

The dark wood paneling of the walls made everything seem closer than it was, though he supposed the room wasn't really all that small. Out of habit, he observed the exits. One door swinging in and out as serving maids busily brought food in from the kitchen and cleared tables, the other door heading to the corridor they’d come in through. Bare walls, no decorations, despite the wealthy clientele. In the far corner existed a large, utilitarian, stone fireplace, sooty and stained with frequent use.

Mulling over the possibilities, he barely noticed the loaf of bread and carafe of wine put in front of them for their breakfast until he looked down and made a face, delighting in Lizzie’s following snort of laughter. He drank in the sound. Despite the overwhelming pressure she must be feeling, she could still laugh and it reassured him.

“Bon appetit,” he said dryly, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it into his mouth as she did the same.

They sat in silence, he ate and drank, while she only nibbled on bread. The bread was plain, but good. He took a sip of the wine, his mouth twisting. It was foul as vinegar but probably the only thing safe to drink. Who knew what the water was like here? Probably full of cholera, he thought grimly.

“I should have asked for beer,” he said in a low voice, rubbing the gold and grey flecked stubble on his cheek. Unlikely that he’d have a chance to shave anytime soon. He might have to see what passed for a barber in this day and age.

“Do you think it would have made it any better?”

His mouth twitched. “I’m not sure anything could. What I wouldn't give for a steaming cup of fragrant earl grey, Lizzie.”

“What’s the plan today? Are you really going to try and go to a money lender?” She leaned forward to speak, her elbows resting on the table.

“Tell me the first thing you’ll do when we get back? I’m planning on flying to Naples. There’s this little pizzeria that I never fail to visit when I’m in that part of the world. The cheese, it just _melts_ ”

“So you think we can get back?”

“I could take you with me. Have you ever seen Pompeii? We could go _sightseeing_ , wouldn't that be fun?”

“How? Do you have a plan? Stop talking about Pizza!”

“I do.”

“What?”

“I have a plan.”

“Are you going to share it with me?” She bit out acidly, her forehead puckering into her familiar frown.

He yawned deliberately. “You’re going to pickpocket that man sitting near the door by himself. The red-faced one.”

She stiffened, jerking herself away from turning to look at the man behind her.

He looked at her with approval. “That's it, nice and easy. I’ll tell you what he looks like. He’s a big man, short with dirty, greying hair. He could do with a haircut actually. No, never mind that, he could do with washing his hair. It’s _yellowing_ ,” he said with disgust. “He’s currently trying to pull a hapless serving woman into his lap. She really doesn't look like she's enjoying herself. Probably doesn't appreciate the bits of food in his beard”

She glared at him. “Don’t pickpockets lose their hands here?”

“Only if they're caught.”

“Thats an interesting risk you’re asking me to take.”

Something flared in his stomach. An overprotective instinct perhaps. He grabbed her hand, tracing the ridged scarring with his finger.

“Lizzie,” he growled, “if anyone suggested taking this lovely hand, they'd find themselves in no condition to try and take it, do you understand me?”

She seemed at a loss for words, pulling her hand away, flustered.

He winced slightly. He needed to keep a better eye on his responses to her.

She took another bite of the chunk of bread in front of her. “Lucky I didn't have any of the wine,” she muttered, taking a breath and rising from her seat.

She plastered a friendly smile on her face and wandered over to her mark, kicking up the rushes strewn across the floor. The old man was sitting alone now, the serving maid having made her escape.

Red watched her closely, a small part of him feeling envious of her skill. She was fascinating to observe. He might even let her teach him one day.

He sat up straighter as he noticed her reaching into her pocket, pulling out his watch. His heart lurched. W _hen did she nab that? Silly question really, it could have been yesterday, it could have been thirty seconds ago. What was she going to do with it?_

“Pardon me sir,” she said politely, holding her unscarred palm out, showing the red faced man the watch.

 _My watch_ , he thought grumpily.

She tripped, falling against the man. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to know if this was yours? I found it near your chair earlier.”

He’d darted a look towards Red nervously as she fussed over his richly embroidered coat, adjusting it for him. Word travelled fast. He clearly knew already that the strangely dressed young woman at the inn was married to the other stranger she was with. By his closed body language, Red assumed he was not as eager to take the liberties with a rich merchant's wife that he had been with a poor serving girl.

“No, no, certainly not, I haven't seen it before,” he said hurriedly, eager to get her off him before her husband made a scene.

She smiled wider. “I’ll let the innkeeper know about it then. So nice to meet you.”

With that, she flounced out of the room, looking for all the world like a fifth century lady of quality, despite her suit pants and jacket.

He stood, curious to see what she’d lifted off of the man. He’d looked for it but she’d been so quick, even he hadn't seen her.

Leaving the taproom, he followed the clop of her heeled boots on the uneven wooden floor of the corridor, catching up to her on the stairs.

“Anything good?” he muttered.

“Just a nice, heavy purse,” she responded in a low, gleeful voice.

He let them both into their room, watching as she spilled the contents of the purse out onto the bed.

Gold and silver coins. Lots of them. She scooped a couple up between her fingers, examining them closely. He did the same.

“How do we tell the denomination?” She asked concernedly.

“Oh, I think we’ll be able to wing it. If in doubt, Lizzie, always double the confidence you project. It’s all just theatre.”

She looked at him narrowly. “I’ve noticed.”

He decided to ignore her. “Right, first item on the agenda today is clothing.”

She sighed. "This isn't going to be fun, I can tell."

He raised an eyebrow at her, smiling tolerantly. She didn't enjoy shopping. He found that oddly endearing, despite it being a favorite pastime of his. Perhaps he was used to the women in his life using his accounts a little too enthusiastically. The women he typically associated with had always enjoyed his money.

"Maybe so, but it's more than necessary. Particularly for you."

"Why not particularly for you as well? We both stick out like a sore thumb."

"Well, I'm not the one who insists on wearing polyester," he said, sniffing and giving her jacket a scathing look. "Really Lizzie, as my father used to say, you need to be prepared for every eventuality."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, so your tailored, natural wool suits are worn for the possibility that you might discover yourself lost in time."

He chuckled, a light, joyful sound. She could always make him laugh.

Inspecting one of the silver coins closely, he noticed scratchy writing he didn't quite recognize. But the curlicues on the outer part of the coin reminded him of something. "I think this is a coin used in the Kingdom of Mercia. If I remember correctly, I smuggled quite a few of these some years ago. Priceless in our time, but the historian I contracted indicated you could probably buy a cow with one of these in this period."

"Planning on buying any cows?" She asked dryly, wandering over to a small, round polished bronze mirror hanging on a wall near the door and wash basin.

Giving her a mild look of reproof, he continued, "I'll aim for a new wardrobe for each of us and perhaps a horse of our own, so that we're not so beholden to the hospitality of the traveling knights.”

"We could afford a horse each then," she remarked, brushing her fingers through her messy dark hair, examining her reflection in the mirror, attempting to make herself presentable for their excursion into the town.

"But I like riding behind you, Lizzie," he said easily, plucking his watch from the pile of coins where she'd left it. "You're an excellent horsewoman." He opened the door. "I'll meet you downstairs, shall I?"

The mirror displayed the tiny wrinkles on her forehead as her eyebrows crept together at the compliment. She stared at herself, letting his words sink in.

* * *

 

Three brightly colored tunics, three sets of plain hose, one pair of pointed leather shoes, a cotton night shirt and a flamboyantly embroidered heavy cloak. Quite a lot of clothing even for a prosperous merchant on the road. He’d enthusiastically entered into the spirit of the thing. If he _must_ wear what amounted to a dress with leggings, he was going to do it in his own style.

He’d been adamant that Lizzie was to have clothing befitting the station they were playing at. He’d seen the way the knights had looked at her when they'd thought her to be poor, unmarried and no relation of his. It made his acid reflux act up every time he thought of it.

His right hand twitched. He wanted a gun. He wanted Dembe.

She sighed for possibly the tenth time in the last hour. “This is really uncomfortable,” she fidgeted irritably with the leather lacing at her bodice and scratched at the wool sleeves.

“But you look so fetching, so...authentic.” He smirked, his eyes roving the full skirt of the dark blue dress she was wearing. It was a lovely color on her, bringing out the blue of her eyes and accentuating the creamy paleness of her skin. Admittedly it was an itchy fabric, the sleeves long and tapered at the ends, but it flowed so nicely against her figure and it would do very well for the light English spring time.

“I suppose I should just be thankful corsets don’t come in for another thousand years,” she said.

They were walking down one of the winding, narrow paths off of the main street. He’d been relieved to get her out of that shop honestly. She was fraying his nerves slightly and he was responding the way he usually did in that circumstance.

By baiting her.

He’d deliberately embarrassed her with the purchase of the nightgown. Insisting loudly with a private smirk just for her, that his wife would have modest nightwear. He’d vetoed a light linen and smaller woolen one before deciding on the thick cotton shift. She’d rewarded his teasing with a dirty look.

His eyes wandered to her laced up bodice now. She _was_ fetching. That was true. But his gaze skittered away again, aware of how it must look. It wasn't done to even be putting his arm around his own ‘wife’ in public, let alone copping eyefuls of her cleavage.

All aside from the fact that she’d probably slap him if she caught him herself.

It was strange how you only had to take away all the trappings of modern life, the phones, cars, computers. And there you were, left with each other. No distractions. And suddenly every little thing about the person you’re with is larger than life.

He was so much more aware of her. The way she moved, her gait so forthright, confident, an almost masculine swagger to her. Having to share a bed intensified the awareness. He had barely slept the night before, terrified of the small body next to him.

In the daytime, he could hold his own. At night he felt like a wolfhound cornered by a kitten.

“I’m not wearing those shoes,” she stated mulishly, “they’re ridiculous and they pinch.”

“I’ll give you a foot rub tonight Lizzie. Please wear them. At least until we leave town.”

“When are we leaving?”

“I spoke to Lancelot while you were upstairs. We’re leaving at noon. Apparently we’ll be camping out a night or two so we’ll need to find some bedrolls, an oilskin tent, buy our own food. I don't want to be a burden on them. When the time comes, I don't want any misunderstandings. We’ll leave when and how we want to leave, and that means having our own things.”

She slowed to a standstill in the street. He turned back to her inquiringly.

“We’re really in Medieval England aren't we?” She whispered.

“Yes.”

She doubled over, hands braced on her thighs. “Oh god. Ah hell.”

He darted forward, taking her elbow. “Lizzie? Elizabeth? I know, I know. Deep breaths, sweetheart, come on, let's get out of the street.”

He led her carefully down a small lane way, bitterly wishing for 17th century France instead, where he might at least be able to find a coffee shop to sit her down in.

He held her to him as she struggled to breathe, stroking her hair, murmuring encouragement. She gained her balance back fairly quickly. Always determined to be in control, this one. He smiled despite himself, glad that she couldn't see his face, huddled up against him as she was.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded. “I have so many questions.”

“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you Lizzie. It’s not likely I’ll be able to answer any of them.”

“Can we get back?”

He didn't answer, a troubled look on his face. He was hesitant to give her any more information when she was on a knife edge from the revelation that they really _were_ back in time.

“Red,” she said, a hard edge to her voice. “You can't keep doing this. There can't possibly be a good reason to keep what you know from me.”

He smiled sheepishly. “But there isn't much more that I can tell you. My suggestion is to go to Camelot, and look for either Merlin or other seers that may have some idea on how to get back home.” He looked at her slyly. “Or we could just go over to the continent and see how things are done there?

“Join the circus I suppose? I could do card tricks, you could try fortune telling."

His chest eased. She was making jokes. Good.

* * *

 

They'd found everything they needed and even bought a horse. Red had been particular about that, relying on Lizzie to choose, given she knew a fair bit about about horses. She'd worked a summer job at her local stables when she was in high school, allowing her to ride for free. She’d even won a prize or two.

He hadn't know that and it surprised him. He had never really asked though. Sam had offered photos, updates on her activities, but he’d only taken what Sam gave, nothing more. So clearly there were some things that had been left out

. “Is the color of the horse important?”

She shot him a look.

He grinned. “Well, you’re the expert, you tell me.”

It didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would, finding out things about her that he didn't know.. It was a pleasure, discovering more of her without the distractions of the job.

She stabled the horse next to the inn while he went in to pay their tally and speak with Bors. Lancelot was out replenishing their own supplies.

“Sir Bors,” Red began genially. “I’d be grateful if you could look over the supplies we’ve bought. I want to be sure we will have everything we need. Lancelot indicated we can expect one or two days on the road before we reach Camelot?”

Bors was happy to be of assistance, rifling through the items Red had bought inside. He’d purchased some fishing line and Bors had eagerly entered into a conversation about the fish in the local rivers.

Lizzie walked in after stabling the horse, observing how quickly Red had gotten the knight onside.

Well she had her tricks, he had his.

She interrupted them brusquely, “I’ll be upstairs until we’re ready to go.”

He looked up at her, a boyish grin on his face as he held a few different lines and hooks in his hands. “I’ll follow you up in a moment. Be ready to go in a quarter of an hour.”

He didn't watch her go. “So, you think we’ll have a chance at catching Sturgeon? Or Trout?”

Bors laughed, “Yes and more besides. How long has it been since I’ve seen a man so keen to fish! You’re as eager as my eleven year old nephew, friend-” he broke off as they both noticed loud voices upstairs. A man and a woman’s voice, raised and angry.

Red straightened up, pulling everything back into the leather rucksack. “Excuse me, we’ll be ready to leave shortly.” He smiled easily, turning to wander up the stairs with no great urgency.

As soon as he was out of sight, he bounded the rest of the way up the stairs.

In the hallway, in front of their room, the red-faced, rich, old merchant had Lizzie trapped up against the wall, a mean looking knife held to her ribs with one hand and the other around her throat. They had both become aware of his entrance at the same time, both sets of eyes fixed on him.

He froze, lowering the rucksack and rolled up tent to the ground.

“Get your filthy hands off of my wife,” he said with growling menace.

“Your wife is a thief, man,” the merchant said in a wavering voice. He had been certain enough of this to attack her but now faced with the confident and furious husband, his certainty was slipping away.

“I’m coming over there and when I do, you’d better be a few steps away from the lady, or I will take your knife from you and you will not like what I do with it,” he said meaningfully.

The merchant was no hero. His hands slipped to his side, giving Lizzie the opportunity to slide away.

Red surged forward, his hand flattening out rigidly. He brought it up in a vicious, chopping motion against the man’s neck, swift and sure. He dropped like a sack of potatoes to the floor, completely out.

He looked over at Lizzie, noticing her frozen in shock. “C’mon, open his door, let’s get him in there.”

She stumbled to the door, throwing it open, a wide eyed look of horror still plastered across her face.

“Help me get him in,” he grunted, taking the man’s arms and sliding him laboriously across the floor. Lizzie scrambled to lift his feet up and they half slid, half carried him into the room, hoisting him onto the bed with some difficulty.

“Why did you do that? He had no proof.”

“No, but if he stirs up trouble, he might have delayed our leaving. He’ll come to in enough time for us to be long gone.”

She gave him a dark look.

“Get your things, we’ll wait in the stable."

She hurried down the stairs, meeting Lancelot half way down.

“Oh hi,” she said brightly, a trifle breathless.

Lancelot looked up at the ceiling, a puzzled expression on his face. “What is high?”

“Ah, I mean, good day?”

He looked curious now. “Did you learn new languages while you dwelt with the saracens?”

“Sure, yes, I mean, yes we learnt some. I apologize if some things I might say confuse you.”

He walked downstairs with her. “I would like you to meet-” he broke off, biting his lip. “There are ladies at the court I think would be very pleased to meet you,” he said slowly.

“You’re very kind,” she said, smiling slightly, uncomfortably.

Red came down the stairs behind them. “Shall we go?” He offered suavely, bounding out into the sunlight.

* * *

An hour later, making their way across the countryside were five refreshed knights, and two weary and on edge travelers.

They both had really only just stopped holding their breath, certain that at any moment lawmen would catch up to them shouting of thievery and assault.

It seemed they'd gotten away.

For now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the formidable FilmsAreFriends

“Don't concern yourself about it being a cold night,” Lancelot offered, smiling at her. “We will make sure the fires are large. I have also ensured the men are mindful of your modesty.” He stopped awkwardly, looking at her, awaiting her approval.

She returned his smile. “Thank you, that’s thoughtful of you.”

He stood next to her, the both of them unsaddling their horses. Red had gone down to the nearby stream to collect water with Bors and Ywain. She’d heard Bors tentatively asking Red as they left about his wife's handling of the horse. They’d clearly expected the only woman of the group to attend to gathering water and similar chores, not handle the most expensive thing they owned, and so proficiently too.

Well, Red didn’t know how to unsaddle and care for their horse so he could damn well go and make himself useful elsewhere, she thought belligerently.

She noted Lancelot still eyeing her and felt a chill. How far away was Red? She scanned the area covertly, her hands tensing, clutching the saddle blanket.

He must have noticed because he blinked and stepped back from her, looking affronted.

Well _he_ hadn't seen the looks on the other men's faces that first day. She wondered now though, why he differed from the rest of them. He’d been all unwavering kindness and genuinely seemed interested in them. Primarily with Red at the start but as she spoke up each time, he had more and more of a brooding expression on his face, looked at her often, quick glances from the side of his eyes, listening to her speak.

She wondered if Red had noticed. He’d been a grouchy bear all day, throwing out hard little sarcastic responses to most of what she’d said throughout the afternoon.

She smiled to herself. If she hadn't spent such a large amount of the past two years with him, she might have been confused by it.

She’d noticed that when he feared for her he become overly solicitous and then sourly sniping in turns, often directing it outwards to any unfortunates happening to get in his way. But this time, it was important to keep the rest of the party on side so he turned his little jibes to her.

It made her feel a little bit safer. But, if he said something about her preferred style in clothing one more time.

She sighed, finishing up with her horse. She’d named him Donald. She’d been happy to get a laugh from Red over that one.

Looking over as Tor and Tristan approached, she was glad to see they’d had luck collecting dead branches and logs for the fire.

"We'll eat salted pork tonight, Mistress Reddington. While you cook the evening meal, some of us will go hunting for tomorrow's meal."

“While I-” She bit back the rest. What was the point?. It would only confuse them to hear why she thought one of them should be cooking. And anyway, her cooking should be punishment enough for their presumption.

“Can I set our tent up?” She asked.

Lancelot looked around for Red and then back at her, “Your husband will be back soon.”

“Yes and I’d like to have the tent set up for when he is back. Just show me where,” she said flatly.

His confounded expression was comical but possibly dangerous. She would have to rein this in, this urge to beat them over the head with a Mary Wollstonecraft treatise. She rearranged her face into features of friendliness again. “I’d just like to help him. Have it all ready for his comfort when he returns,” she said, with the hunch that this would be what he wanted to hear.

He gave her a hard, curious look but didn’t stop her, pointing to a spot that would be between two of the fires once they'd been built up. “There, you may set your tent there.”

It took a while. It wasn't exactly the type of tent she had been used to when she'd go camping over the weekends with Sam.

She thought fondly of him now. He'd been so insistent that she learn how to protect herself. He hadn't let up til she was an expert marksman, could ride a horse, change a tire, and handle a knife in a fight.

Perhaps it was going to come in handy now. Just not for the reasons Sam had anticipated.

She wondered idly what he _had_ anticipated.

"Mistress," came Tristan's voice, disturbing her from her reverie. "Lancelot tells me that you can read and...write." He waited for her answer, a hopeful expression on his face.

Well, she had told Lancelot that in passing earlier that day. Some offhand comment about wishing she could stay in bed all day tomorrow, reading a good book. He'd looked at her strangely but she'd been getting so many odd looks from him through the day, she hadn't worried too much.

"I can read, yes," she responded cautiously. Would this be a black mark against her?

Tristan licked his lips, looking for all the world as though he was gathering up his courage. "He also says that you know some stories, from the Saracen lands. Would you honor us with a story then, Mistress?"

Crap. When had she said that?  Okay, Disney's Aladdin, it was.

She nodded her head as regally as she could, hoping she wasn't coming across as foolish. "You can cook the evening meal and I’ll think of a story." Strutting off toward the stream, she let that sink in.

 

* * *

 

She adjusted her skirts around her, taking her place by the fire. She was careful not to let her underskirts peek out. She’d only had a few opportunities to observe other women in the town they’d left but she’d made good use of her profiling ability. Women just didn’t move about as freely as men. She’d noticed even the teenage girls were careful to sit with their ankles neatly crossed, nothing peeping out from their skirts.

“Alright,” she said a little nervously. “This is a story about a beggar named Aladdin.” She was silent for a moment, almost expecting to be interrupted. They all stared back at her, faces eager in the firelight. She caught Red’s eye. He sat restfully back against a log, an amused twist to his lips.

She’d show him.

“So, he was a poor kid from the slums of -”

“He was a baby goat?” asked the bewildered Tristan.

“No, I mean he was a young man. He caught the eye of a fairy tale princess and-”

“Fairies,” hissed Bors, “that was his first mistake. Never catch their eye. They will glamor you as soon as they look at you.”

“No,” she continued impatiently. “She was just an ordinary princess, alright? He saw her, he liked her, he wanted to marry her.” She glared at them. They settled back down, chastened by her ferocious look.

“So, anyway, Aladdin was duped into going to this hidden cave…”

 

* * *

 

“That worked well,” she whispered to Red in the dark as he settled himself into the sheepskins under their tent. She’d gone to bed a little earlier, her throat sore from the smoke of the fire and telling her story for hours on end.

“Yes, very smart. I particularly liked you trying to explain the talking parrot.”

She muffled a giggle. “Were they still arguing about it when you left them?”

“Actually, they’d moved on to the genie. They weren’t quite sure why Aladdin didn’t vanquish him after winning the princess.”

“Oh well,” she said complacently, “They liked my story anyway.”

 

* * *

 

It felt like she’d only had an hour or two of sleep when the wind picked up enough to startle her from her slumber. She’d been having a dream.

“Red?”

“I feel it too,” his voice cut through the darkness, heavy with concern.

The wind had turned icy cold, unnaturally so. The coolness of the spring night had become a freezing gale. The wind was blowing furiously against the sides of their tent, the urgent flapping straining the tent pegs to their limit.

Suddenly, from somewhere out in the night came a cry of distress.

“Mercy,” the voice swept through the camp. “Have mercy on an an old woman seeking the warmth of your fire.” A cackle punctuated this speech.

She scrambled from her blankets. What the hell was that? There were deep voices of alarm now coming from other tents.

“The horses!”

“Is that her? The sorceress?”

“Show yourself demoness!”

She reached out for Red. He was calmly sitting up. She could see the faint outline of his white linen nightshirt. He’d cocked an ear, listening, just listening.

Tristan came to their tent entrance. “Master Reddington, you must take your lady and hide her. We may do battle here tonight".

She looked at him. "If they need help..." she began uncertainly.

He shook his head. "No, come with me," he said, grabbing her arm and vacating the tent with her following close behind. He led her out of their little campsite and into a clump of trees, right up under an old oak tree, the branches thick and forked in the middle. "Climb up here and just wait. I wouldn't ask you to in our time, I'm not saying you're not capable, Lizzie, but you don't have a gun and I don't know who is here and what they want," he said.

She started climbing, grunting at the sudden pressure of his hands on her bottom, shoving her further up into the tree. "You had better come back soon. I mean it," she bit out.

He didn't answer her, retreating swiftly into the dark.

She clung to the thick, scaly trunk of the tree, straining to hear. She wanted to call out, biting the inside of her mouth against the impulse. Carefully, she drew her bare legs further up into the tree, hissing as she scraped her calves along the rough bark. Her thick cotton nightgown was snagging along the branch, preventing her climbing any higher. Her heart thumped as she thought of what a target she must make for anyone riding past. All it would take was a well placed stone thrown her way. Her nightgown was a beacon in the dark, bleached as white as chalk and she was stuck there.

She heard further shouts and the clash of metal against metal. She clung closer to her branch, dread coursing freely through her now. She was sure she was hearing a sword fight. Where was Red in all of this?

Constantly scanning the darkness around her, she saw it straight away. A movement, a shadow, if it was possible for a shadow to be cast in the dead of night with no modern streetlights about.

It steadily moved towards the old oak tree she was hidden in. It...glided across the ground. A longish lump of something, like a dark crocodile. It stopped underneath her tree and suddenly it wasn’t a serpentish shape anymore but grew upwards, into the form of a man. A man in black armor.

A black knight.

What did she remember? God, it had been simple before. Lancelot, the knights of the round table, King Arthur of Camelot. They were the good guys, the known quantity. What was there about a black knight? It tickled her memory and filled her with foreboding.

It spoke.

“My mistress would speak with you.”

The voice was so normal, almost reassuring, deep like any man’s. Nothing to fear.

She wasn't stupid though. She stayed huddled in the fork of the tree, desperately clutching at her branch.

“She’s coming now. She would not hurt you. Come down and speak with her.”

And she was coming, gliding across the ground in that same oddly inhuman way, her dress faintly silver in the inky darkness of the night.

Where was Red? Where were the other knights? She shivered, trying to hold her panic down, remembering Bors’ earlier words. Never let a fairy look you in the eyes. And oh god, she had no room left in her to feel foolish over this because if ever there was a fairy, this creature was one.

She had only seen the pale, translucent skin that seemed to shine like the silvery dress she wore and the thick, black, curly hair falling in long waves half way down her back for just  a moment. She didn't want to see more. Terrified she tucked her head into the crook of her arm, not looking, _not looking,_ eyes squeezed shut.

“Who are you?” Came the voice that matched that silvery visage. Like bells on a clear night, her question rang out: "Why are you here?” She circled the tree slowly, as though looking for a way up. It wouldn't be hard. If she chose to climb she could knock her out of the tree into the waiting embrace of the black knight who stood to attention below. “I didn't see you. I only saw the other two. Why didn't I see you?”

Why didn't she come up? Lizzie kept her head averted, not looking directly in the creature's eyes, her own eyes hovering between closed and slightly open.

“Look at me. Look at me, pretty girl. You’re as lovely as Guinevere. Tell me why Lancelot listens to you when you speak?”

Lizzie's arms grew as heavy as lead. Lancelot? Why did this woman care what Lancelot thought of her?

“Answer me, girl,” the voice, not so light now, a slight bite on the edges. “You brought men with iron, That’s not the friendliest of gestures. Tell me your purpose? Is the man you’re with yours? I might take him anyway. I wanted him when I saw him.”

Lizzie's chest constricted. Was she talking about Red? What did she mean? Men with iron? What two did she see? This was nonsense. She felt anger bubbling up in her throat.

“Go away, you psycho,” she yelled unsteadily. “Just...go away.”

There was such an immediate silence that she felt a chill of terror for a moment, imagining that the woman had elevated herself into the tree or something along the lines of a horror movie and she might be right there in front of her now, close enough to feel her breath stir across her face.

She moaned in fear, opening one eye slightly.

Nothing. No fairy woman, no black knight, just empty woodlands.

She realized that the clash of battle had stopped. When had it stopped? She hadn’t noticed.

She shivered, from fear or cold, she wasn't sure. But she was getting out of this damn tree, she knew that for sure.

Clambering down, she hesitantly stumbled across twigs and pine cones and shrubs in her bare feet, going much slower than when she had come from the other way with Red. She had her hands in front of her, unable to see much more than directly in front of her face.

She would have to risk speaking. “Red?” she hissed into the night.

She heard a moan. Freezing in horror, she realized the noise was coming only a few feet from her. “Hello? Do you need help? Who is it?”

“Lizzie,” she heard from behind her.

She whirled around, relief enveloping her as she recognized Red’s voice. “Red, are you hurt? There’s someone here. They’re hurt but I can't tell who it is.”

“Ywain,” whispered the voice. "Help me to the campfire.”

She cautiously approached, Red right behind her. The figure on the ground was half sitting now. Her eyes had adjusted enough to the night that she could see the outline of a man in his nightshirt.

They’d all been in their damn pajamas, fending off an attack, she thought, biting her tongue on an irreverent snort of laughter.

Together, they hoisted Ywain up between them and made their way back to the campfire. They met Lancelot, Bors and Tor halfway there.

She held her breath looking at Lancelot’s solemn and thunderous face. Well, he looked _pissed_.

“She took Tristan,” he said without preamble, “she took him alive. She wants us to follow, but we must not. We must strive for Camelot. The King must know.”

Red didn't look happy. In the light of the fire she saw he’d sustained a gash on his neck and various scrapes and cuts all over his face. She reached a hand halfway to his face before she remembered.

She wasn't _actually_ his wife.

Lancelot was speaking again. “The king will want to honor you, Master Reddington. Your quick thinking was all that saved the rest of us tonight. We were unprepared and I am ashamed. I should have remembered to attack with iron as you did instead of treating them as any other adversary”. He looked towards her penitently. “Your lady, has she…”

Red looked questioningly at her as well. “Lizzie? Are you alright?”

She stood, foolishly like a statue, debating whether or not to tell them. Ah well, she’d better. “I saw her. Whoever it was that took Tristan. She had a lot of rude questions. Wasn’t any of her business.”

Lancelot looked horrified. “Did you look at her? What did she say? Did she speak of-” he broke off.

Red suddenly looked very interested. He cleared his throat. “If we’re not chasing your companion, I suggest we decamp now, and make headway to Camelot. There’s only a few hours left til dawn and I doubt _anyone_ is going to be getting any more sleep.”

Lancelot nodded, turning to give orders to the three men left around the fire.

Suddenly she had a lot more questions. "Hey! Hey! Excuse me, who was she?"

Lancelot turned briefly back to her. "Her name is Morgan Le Fay. She is a sorceress and she is not to be trifled with."

* * *

 

It was almost dawn by the time the bedrolls and tents were folded and packed into saddlebags.

Red had more knowledge of field first aid than anyone so it had been he who had wrapped Ywain's arm in a sling, feeling his way in the dark. He'd sustained a twisted shoulder when one of Morgan's weird creatures had attacked, throwing him to the ground, wrenching his sword arm as he’d tried to stand again.

The unlucky knight couldn't ride by himself so he'd mounted up behind Bors, riding behind the other knight in the same way Red was with Lizzie.

They'd offered him Ywain's horse to ride but he'd declined, insisting that he be near his wife after the unsettling events of their night.

He'd been partially truthful. Lizzie had been boiling away like a kettle, furious at Lancelot, who wouldn't say more about Morgan Le Fay other than what he'd already said. She'd been refusing to look his way at all or engage in any light banter as she had the previous day.

It made him glad. He could admit that to himself. Oh, he knew that according to the stories Lancelot was in love with Guinevere, but he'd mistrusted the knight's fascination with Lizzie. He hadn't liked the man’s covert glances or the smiles she bestowed upon him. He’d prefer to keep close to her now, conscious that she could be very unpredictable when her temper was up and judging by her stiff carriage in the saddle, she was still outraged enough for there to be trouble ahead.

The first rays of the morning sun were shining through the trees by the time they had started moving. The campsite was clear, only the smouldering remains of their fire and a few tent peg marks in the ground any signs that they had been there.

The battle had taken place a few feet away from the camp. He'd come back from hiding Lizzie to find it in full swing, helmeted, misshapen and overly tall men in suits of strange, jagged armor swinging massive swords at the knights. He'd observed narrowly from the shadows, unwilling to pit himself against the enemy until he knew precisely what his advantage would be. He hadn't seen one straight away and had even considered taking their horse, collecting Lizzie and making a dash for it.

It wasn't his battle.

But his mind had worked and whirred and he'd noticed Lancelot strike a glancing blow against one of the armoured men's swords. A bronze sword.

The others had iron swords. Why bronze? This was the Iron Age wasn't it? An iron sword was lighter, much easier to wield, and cheaper too. He'd thought and he'd reached an answer.

These men, these oddly armored men were at least seven feet tall, their blackened armor unnaturally shaped, as if they fit insects inside of their hard shells and not men at all. Perhaps because they weren't men. He’d looked around him.These men who weren't men, carrying bronze swords and armored in some metal he’d never seen before were avoiding iron. He didn't have a sword, iron or otherwise but it probably wouldn't have been much use to him if he had, the unfamiliar weight of a broadsword likely to hinder him anyway. He’d then thought of the tent pegs. They were iron.

He’d raced the few steps back into the camp, seized a peg from within the ground, pulled it up and sprinted back into the midst of the battle, happening upon one of the insect like men kneeling on Ywain, about to deliver a killing blow. He’d thrust the tent peg viciously into the gap between the breastplate and helmet.

The hideous creature had shrieked, falling on it’s face, shuddering unnaturally as it expired at Ywain’s feet.

“Use your swords properly,” he’d yelled into the night, hoping he could be heard. And the tide had turned, the other knights had seen what he’d done and been reminded that they weren't dealing with human warriors. Instead of using their swords to parry the bronze ones, they’d thrust, short, sharp jabs into chinks of armor. Their aggressors hadn’t stayed to see how this would turn out. They’d turned tail and fled, but not before knocking Tristan unconscious and bundling him onto a horse.

He’d quietly filled Lizzie in on the events of the battle while attending to Ywain. And she’d told him what Morgan Le Fay had said to her. Certainly there was a puzzle to work out.

He circled her waist now with his arms and to his surprise she leaned back into him slightly. He blinked. Apparently he was in her good books today. That was such a rare occurrence that for a moment he wasn't sure how to feel. He hadn't realised how starved for her affection he'd been. He didn't deserve it, he knew that. The things he’d done…

Well.

If she was going to show some softness toward him today, he’d be an opportunist about it.

He hooked his chin over her shoulder, "Lizzie," he whispered low into her ear, “We need to find out more about Morgan Le Fay, I’ll see if I can get an audience with Merlin and I’ll need you to try with Queen Guinevere, will you do that?”

She nodded, patting his hand. She _was_ in a conciliatory mood toward him. The morning sun somehow seemed brighter, the sounds of local woodland birds more harmonic to his ears. He grinned for the pure joy of being alive.

 ****  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

They rode hard, urgency driving them. He’d been expecting them to slow down now for a few hours but it was Lizzie who voiced his concern.

“When are we stopping to rest the horses?” She asked tightly.

Lancelot pulled on his reins, turning to face her. “We aren’t. We mustn't. It is imperative that we reach his majesty the King before nightfall. He will want to decide how best to respond to Sir Tristan's abduction.” He looked back at her as though expecting a challenge.

He got one.

“I'm not taking my horse any further at this pace. Either we stop for the night in the town up ahead or we go no faster than a walk for the rest of the time it takes to get to Camelot.”

Red broke in smoothly before Lancelot had a chance to inflame the situation. “Or, there’s a third option.” Both sets of eyes turned to him. “Why don't we trade for fresh horses in the town? Then we can go galloping across the countryside, risking our necks to our heart's content without a worry for the horses. Hmm?”

Lancelot frowned but nodded slowly, satisfied with the logic of the suggestion but certainly not the delivery. “Very well, we will trade for new horses. But your _wife_ can wait in the inn while we trade.”

Red’s eyes widened fractionally. No good, he needed Lizzie to choose their mount. He had a racehorse back in his own time but had no day to day involvement in it other than to ensure it had the best of everything, including food, stabling, trainers and vet care.

This wasn't an option. “Come now, Lancelot, are you going to let the tongue of a woman spur you to be disobliging? I’ll admit she’s a firebrand but then I think you may have some experience with that at home. Is thwarting the lady really such a sound strategy?”

He knew he was going to pay for that but he saw no other way to get Lancelot to agree to their terms. Lizzie would want to choose the horse they rode and allowing her to argue with the stoic knight was only going to get him to dig his heels in further.

Lancelot nodded jerkily, relenting and allowing Lizzie to accompany them to the market.

Red held back a sigh as they approached the marketplace of the next little village. He could feel her practically vibrating with rage. She had stiffened and was no longer leaning comfortably against him. God help him if she ever realised how sensitive he was to her moods. Her fury could be as hard to bear as the lash of a whip, her pleasure like balm to a raw and weary soul.

They rode through the little hilltop village, drawing gawkers to them like moths to flame. So many knights together in their bright tabards was quite a spectacle for a small town, even one so close to Camelot as this.

Lizzie dismounted without a word to him, leading their horse to a trader on the edge of the market. A gap toothed, grizzly bearded fellow who looked as though he were sixty  but in reality, Red reflected, was probably closer to forty. He acknowledged her with a small dip of his head.

“I want to trade this horse,” she began with no introduction as he dismounted as well. “He’s well bred and worth ten of that one,” she pointed to a scruffy looking nag. “He’s tired, we’ve pushed him harder than we should have. He’ll be fine with some mash and a rest.” She turned with a look at Lancelot who had moved over to another horse trader and was bargaining with them, pointedly ignoring Lizzie.

Red’s mouth thinned.

He ambled over to where Lancelot was standing. The knight was waiting for the trader to return with a horse he was considering.

“So the king, I imagine he will be quite irate to lose one of his knights to a sorceress,” Red prompted.

Lancelot tensed slightly. “His majesty will be justifiably angered with me. I lead this party and am responsible for its welfare.”

Red rolled his tongue thoughtfully. “So I suppose you intend to apprise him of my actions during the battle? That’s going to make for quite a story. I expect I might have earned some brownie points with the king.”

“Brownie points?” Asked Lancelot, bewildered.

Red half turned to go but faced the knight again. “You are welcome to my support before your king as you explain the... _muddle_ you’ve made of things but one thing you should understand and understand well, is that you are _not_ to upset my _wife_.”

The young knight stepped back, the menace that was rolling in waves off of Red almost a physical slap in the face.

He turned again to go, satisfied he’d made his point. He made a beeline towards Lizzie. She was closing a deal with the befuddled horse trader who was trying desperately to make the trade with Bors, discounting Lizzie’s ownership of the horse.

“No, you don’t look at him, you look at me,” she said firmly. “God! Car dealerships, horse traders, nothing changes does it? Is it a deal? I want the grey one and ten pieces of silver.”

The trader viewed her with rheumy, disapproving eyes. “Him, and three pieces of silver.”

“No, that’s ridiculous, I know what a bargain you’re getting. If it weren't for our need to leave so quickly, I’d demand twenty gold pieces and get it too,” she challenged.

The old trader spat tobacco onto the ground near her feet. Bors jerked toward him, an outraged look on his face.

Red stopped in his tracks, watching closely. The horse trader had shied away at Bors’ advance. “Fine, yes! Him and seven pieces,” he said, startled at the support Lizzie was getting from the strange knight.

She snorted. “Eight.”

“Yes, yes eight,” the trader grumbled, reaching for his leather waist pouch.

Red approached Lizzie, ready to congratulate her as she received the lead to her new horse. She glanced at him, moving past him without stopping. “Don't talk to me,” she said briefly.

He stood in the lane, a twitch in his cheek the only telltale sign of his annoyance.

 

* * *

 

Their arrival at the castle of Camelot coincided with the sinking of the sun. Scouts had declared their presence already and outriders rode to meet them, joining with them as they entered the castle, crossing a drawbridge that was surprisingly narrower than Lizzie had anticipated.

She was impressed however with the castle, the size of its rounded turrets and battlements everything she could have wanted in a fairy tale castle and more.The gleaming white limestone walls were a beacon from a mile away and up close filled her with grudging wonder. The dark grey slate shingled roofing made for such a contrast against the pearly sheen of the walls, it took her breath away.

There was shouting and cheering from the walls of the castle and all along the inner courtyard as they rode through. She felt Red’s hands tighten around her waist and she shifted irritably, reminded of his little speech earlier.

She burned with resentment. He should have known better. He hadn't apologised. Even Lancelot had come to her before they’d finished their horse trade and humbly apologised for his manner. Now _that_ was a true gentleman.

“Lizzie,” Red murmured urgently into her ear. “Remember, you need to make a friend of Guinevere.”

She shrugged, annoyed with the thrill she felt as his breath touched her ear. “I haven't forgotten,” she said tersely.

They both dismounted, following the lead of Lancelot and the other knights. Several pages came darting over to them, taking their horses. She felt like objecting but it was clear they were familiar with the castle and mostly likely perfectly equipped to look after her horse. She hadn’t named this one, her thoughts had been too distracted with their imminent arrival.

The crowd was parting for Lancelot so she followed him closely, anxiety tightening her stomach muscles. There were a _lot_ of people for medieval times, weren't there? She eyed Red with a sidelong glance. He looked perfectly at ease, his arms swinging by his side, a relaxed and interested expression on his face. She remembered what he’d said in the inn. It was all just theatre. Well, two could play at that game.

She smiled at the faces in the crowd, pushing the thought of her grubby face and smelly clothes out of her mind.

Their small party trailed after Lancelot as he approached a man standing in an archway, his retainers in a semi circle behind him, a woman to his left.

Yeah. This was the king. A man about as tall as Red, much older than him, with a neatly trimmed, short white beard on his face, his eyes a little puffy with age, skin as white and fragile as parchment, his stance and limbs still strong though. He looked like a man who practiced with a broadsword every day, age be damned.

The woman at his side was shockingly young in comparison. She looked like a teenager really, with dewy, youthful skin. The kind of girl who would have been a cheerleader if she’d lived in Lizzie’s time. Her skin looked like it had never seen a pimple and her _hair_. Lizzie felt a stab of envy. How did she keep her hair so soft and long with the water and soap they had in this time? Her hair was a pretty dark blonde rippling down her back with no split ends in sight.

She touched her own ratty, brown hair self consciously, wishing for the bathtub at the inn. Hell, a stream would do. She could smell herself which undoubtedly meant that anyone else could smell her stink twofold.

Lancelot had knelt to his king as her mind wandered. She felt Red pulling her down as he knelt as well. She wasn't quite sure, was she meant to kneel or curtsy? To the king or the queen as well? She made do with a weird, twisty dip of her knees, stumbling a little as she righted herself again.

Lancelot had risen, thankfully.

“Your majesty, I bring you good news, grave tidings...and a resourceful warrior,” he began soberly.

_Pompously_ , thought Lizzie privately.

“Our quest was fulfilled, my lord. We have slain Hueil mab Caw, the Pictish plunderer and his followers. His warriors will no longer harass your loyal subjects,” he paused a moment, and miserably, he continued, “On our journey home, we were accosted by the sorceress Morgan Le Fay. Only through the services of your subject Raymond Reddington did we drive the enemy back. I am distressed to own that we have lost Sir Tristan, abducted by the she-devil.” He bowed his head, acknowledging his shame.

The king was surprisingly circumspect about this news, only looking curiously over at Red.

Red looked right back at him.

“Welcome Raymond Reddington, to Camelot,” spoke the king sonorously.

Red nodded his head graciously, “Thank you, your majesty,” he said comfortably. “It was an honor to assist your noble knights.” He glanced over at Lizzie. “May I introduce you to my wife, Elizabeth? She has done what I believe few could, she has spoken with Morgan Le Fay and resisted her glamor.”

To Lizzie’s surprise, the king’s eyebrows shot up and the young queen made an odd, reflexive movement toward her.

“That...is something,” said the king respectfully, inclining his head toward her. He clapped his hands suddenly. “Please, allow me to offer the hospitality of this castle.”

A page appeared and knelt to the king. Arthur acknowledged him. “Show our loyal friends the bathing chambers and assign them a room,” he instructed.

They allowed themselves to be led away.

 

* * *

 

She barely waited for the door to close behind her before rounding on him. “Well I suppose I should thank you. You’ve given me an in with the Queen. She’s pretty keen to know what the sorceress was like. If I see her again, she’ll have a million questions for me,” she said lightly.

He looked back at her steadily. “I meant what I said Lizzie. It’s quite clear that this Le Fay woman terrifies them. You did well, you kept your head. It’s more than I can say for them.”

“Oh...well,” she replied uncertainly. “No one believes in magic anyway,” she finished lamely.

He raised an eyebrow, a frustrated frown crossing his face for a moment, then turned away to strip, preparing to bathe.

She hurriedly looked away, embarrassment flooding her. When had bathing in the same room with Reddington become so...familiar?

She risked a peek under her eyelashes.

He’d immersed himself in the wooden tub, not looking at her at all. “When you’ve finished looking Lizzie, I’d suggest getting in. You smell as ripe as week old grapes.”

She folded her lips. _God_ he was getting entirely too comfortable with play acting her husband, she thought disgustedly, turning to peel off her dress and undershift and stalking over to her own tub full of hot water.

“So you really left me out to dry today,” she ventured, annoyed at the hesitance in her own voice. _She_ wasn't the one who had let the team down.

He splashed about in the tub deliberately, ignoring her.

“You could have at least-”

“Lizzie, will you _please_ get some perspective,” he huffed.

She scooped some water up from her tub and splashed it out at him, hitting him in the face with it. She blinked, not even sure why she’d done that, it had been silly. Perhaps her pent up aggression was leaking out a little. He was just looking at her now, a displeased expression on his face, like a teacher dealing with a small child that had just made a mess in the corner of the room.

“Sorry,” she offered guiltily, trying to hide a gulp of laughter bubbling to the surface as she watched him grope for the linen sheet folded beside his tub and wipe his face fastidiously with it.

“Feel better?” he inquired in a mildly annoyed tone.

“Yes, actually,” she responded cheerfully. “Come closer, I could do that again.”

“I would,” he said, pulling himself up in the tub, standing again, completely disregarding his own nudity. “But we have plans to discuss. You should finish up and come and talk, like _adults_ ,” he emphasised archly.

This time she didn't look away. She didn’t stare. Not exactly. But if he was playing this game, she wasn't going to fold so easily. She smiled.

“Alright, let's get dressed and go find our room.”

They didn't get a chance however. A page was waiting for them outside the door. A kid dressed in the king's colors, blue and gold.

“His majesty hopes you are refreshed and would be honored if you would join him tonight. There is a feast to celebrate the return of some of the knights of the round table,” the boy said as if he were reading lines from a blackboard.

Red turned his head and quirked an eyebrow at her, his expression was of tolerant amusement. “It seems we won't need to find our room just yet then.”

“Oh, your belongings have been taken to your room,” the boy offered, eager to be of assistance.

She nodded wearily. “Just let me change into a different dress,” she said, withdrawing back into the bathing chamber with Red. Apparently their day wasn't yet over. She grudgingly admitted to herself that Red had been right to insist on the richly embroidered saffron yellow dress. It had enough flounces of material on it to make several more outfits in their own time. It was heavy and hot but the castle was so chilly that she was grateful for it now.

She awkwardly accepted Red’s help in lacing her up. The rest of her dresses were easy, the laces in the front, but this one had laces in the back and was far more formfitting. His touch somehow managed to be respectful and impersonal but at the same time, she couldn’t help a little shiver run through her every time his fingers brushed her skin

They followed the page through the spacious rooms and long corridors, up a winding staircase that was so small, she’d started to feel slightly claustrophobic by the time they reached the top.

They entered a massive dining hall. There were huge granite fireplaces in three of the four sides of the room, so large that an entire half of a tree trunk was blazing merrily from each one.

A square table on a dais sat at the far end of the room, elevated slightly from the long table that ran almost from one length of the room to the other.

She breathed slowly from her stomach, trying to steady her nerves. Red took her arm in his, an ostentatious, courtly gesture but he stroked her hand as he held it and she found it far more reassuring than any deep breaths could be.

“Your majesty, Raymond Reddington and his wife Elizabeth,” chimed the voice of the young page boy.

They proceeded further into the room. They were announced.

Well, here goes, she thought anxiously.  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Red was the guest of honor, seated at the King’s table, next to Lancelot. Lizzie was seated on the other side, next to Queen Guinevere. She glanced at Red as she took her seat. She had been relying on their physical closeness more than she'd realized and was finding it strange and anxiety-inducing to be so many chairs away from him now. She'd need her wits to get through this dinner.

Guinevere turned to her with a pleasant smile on her face, her eyes bright and lively with curiosity. “Lady Elizabeth, what a pleasure to break bread with you,” she said graciously.

Oh goodness, her voice made her sound young. She was only a slip of a girl, and married to a man so much older than her. It didn't seem right, but she knew to keep those thoughts to herself. This wasn't the safest setting to protest such a coupling.

She found herself smiling back. “Thank you, it's an honor to be here.”

She waited, her hands folding in her lap.  _ Dammit _ , she thought.  _ What kind of table manners are appropriate in this setting? _

She watched Guinevere carefully, copying her moves as the young queen reached for her goblet of wine. The food was plentiful. Lizzie’s eyes roamed the table, laden down with the weight of multiple roast pheasants, and root vegetables swimming in lard. There weren't any green vegetables to be had. But there were strange looking jellies and a fantastical roast pig, stretched out in front of the king with an apple in its mouth and plates of fried fish arranged all around the large dish.

Tentatively, she reached for a chunk of rye bread and scooped up some sort of barley like stew from a copper dipper, pouring it into her bowl. She watched out of the corner of her eye as a number of pages, all dressed in the King’s colors stepped forward to carve up the roast pig and pheasant. A portion of both was deposited onto her plate.

She wouldn't be hungry at any rate. But she might need to find some green vegetables before long. 

“Lady Elizabeth, I confess to much curiosity. Sir Lancelot speaks glowingly of your daring in facing the sorceress Morgan Le Fay,” offered Guinevere diffidently.

There was something about her voice and the glance the the girl had given her as she spoke that seemed off to Lizzie. A tone that suggested this subject was close to home. What could she remember about Morgan Le Fay and Guinevere? Had there been some sort of rivalry? Some feud? Once again, she had to tread lightly.

“Sir Lancelot is very kind,” she began carefully. “It was frightening, that's true. She's a...scary woman.”

“She's a wicked, evil witch,” returned the girl passionately.

Lizzie blinked, gripping her spoon tightly. Well then. It  _ was _ personal. She was about to say something generic and placating when her attention was stolen rudely by an outburst from King Arthur.

“Where have all the brave men gone!” Roared the king, pounding his large fists on the roughly hewn, grey wood of the table. “A quest! Who will volunteer for the glory?”

A hush swept the room. The King's guests waited patiently for him to have his say. He had the floor of course. He was the king after all.

Lancelot’s head was bowed. He looked miserable and ashamed, his shoulders slumped in dejection. He was taking his failure to heart. Lizzie wondered if that was partially to do with the King's reaction to losing one of his knights; or if he really was that much of a masochist that he was honestly blaming himself for the loss and self flagellating because of it.

She leaned back in her chair, catching sight of the direction of Guinevere's gaze. Her eyes had alighted on Lancelot, the tenderest expression on her face.

Uh-oh. 

She was going to stay way out of that one. That relationship could only end in tears.

She pretended she hadn't seen Guinevere making calf eyes at the miserable knight, instead trying to catch Red’s eye. But his gaze was fixed warily on the King. He was delicately managing his meal all the while, taking a spoonful of barley stew and roast pheasant and eating it neatly, while keeping his attention on the king.

Three of the Knights sitting up at the King's table had banged their fists on the table in support of his short speech.

“I would have Knights with the hearts of lions!” He continued. “Is it not time to take back Avalon? For too long I have tolerated her foul stench, polluting the very air I breathe. She calls herself Queen of Avalon! A territory that belongs to me by right of my forebears!” 

He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. His bleary eyes and slightly sloppy speech indicated to Lizzie that it might not be his first drink. She raised an eyebrow, burying her face in her own cup to hide what she felt was probably open distaste written on her face.

“He will send Sir Lancelot then,” said Guinevere fretfully. “He's only just returned from a quest that took months to accomplish. I wonder…” She trailed off, casting Lizzie a hesitant look.

“What do you wonder?” She asked keeping her voice pleasant. The girl was probably a silly goose, picked for the marriage bed for her looks and not much else.

“Well, isn't it strange that she took Sir Tristan? Morgan Le Fay has...a history with Sir Lancelot. There's no good reason to take Sir Tristan instead when she could have abducted  _ him _ . Perhaps she has a reason to encourage outright war. I only wonder of course,” she said, casting Lizzie another look, nervous this time. 

Not a silly goose then. Quite a pragmatic brain. She'd have made a good profiler in their own time. But this was not their time. And Queen Guinevere was being a little too obvious in her concern for Sir Lancelot. She did  _ not _ want any trouble from that tangled love triangle. It was a shame, Guinevere was a lovely girl. She was inclined to take her under her wing, but that wasn't what they were here for.

“Will the king consult anyone on this? Does he have...an advisor?” Lizzie asked delicately.

“Oh yes, Merlin will be consulted of course,” said Guinevere, appearing to relax at the thought. “He won't make any decisions without his input. Even if he has…” She looked furtively at her husband, “...had a good amount of wine.”

The meal filled Lizzie up quickly. She felt full to the point of bursting and was keeping an eye on the rose colored wine she was drinking out of a pretty pewter goblet. Getting drunk wouldn't help anyone, and it was strong stuff, with the kick of a horse.

She asked the kinds of questions that she thought might be safe for two ladies of this time.

Did Guinevere embroider?

“Oh yes, we've a large wall hanging that we’ve been embroidering this year,” she responded enthusiastically, “a hunting scene, from a famous hunt a few years ago, where Sir Aglovale’s son was tragically killed by a wild boar.” The boar had been killed by the king in spectacular fashion, spitted and roasted for the poor young squire’s funeral.

_ I'd rather keep my life and eat vegetables, _ thought Lizzie privately but she said nothing more on the subject.

It felt like hours of small talk. It was boring and painful, but there was an occasional spark in the young girl’s conversation. She was stifled here in the castle, a pretty face to dangle at the arm of a king. But there was so much more behind the face, she just had to dig a little. She understood why Lancelot had fallen in love with the girl despite his strong moral code.

At the end of the feast, Lizzie managed to secure an invitation to Guinevere’s drawing room the next day. She'd sheepishly admitted she didn't know how to sew or embroider, citing her parents strange lifestyle in Saracen lands as the reason for the odd gap in her education. Guinevere had been eager to teach her.

“Please excuse me,” she said, catching Red’s eye. A number of people, including the king had risen, ready to retire for the night. “I'm exhausted. Sleep seems attractive right about now.”

“Yes of course,” Guinevere agreed, “sleep well.”

Lizzie curtsied to the king and queen and waited for Red to join her after he'd made his own bows. He took her arm grandly, strolling casually out of the great dining room.

“How'd it go?” He whispered to her in the corridors. “It looked like you and Guinevere had a lot to say to each other.”

“Very well actually,” she whispered back, clutching his arm tighter as they passed a page seated in the corner. It was off putting but the castle was so big that having attendants waiting in corridors and corners to be directed and sent on errands probably made sense. “You know that the King will consult Merlin about this whole war with Morgan Le Fay thing?” She said after they had left a comfortable distance between themselves and the page.

Red whistled. “Good work. Now to see if we could be granted an audience with the man.”

“I've also been invited to some sort of sewing circle in her drawing room tomorrow,  _ don't laugh _ ,” she said huffily, observing the upward quirk of his lips. “It'll give me the opportunity to get to know her and her fan club further.”

“Fan club?” He asked with raised eyebrows.”

She waved dismissively. “You know, ladies in waiting or whatever.”

He laughed gently. “Of which you might find yourself one, if you're not careful. You've made quite an impression on the king and his Knights. Lancelot thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread and he hasn't been shy in telling the king.”

_ That _ was a surprise. “I wonder why?” She said, frowning in thought. “Lancelot doesn't seem to like me speaking my mind.”

Red cleared his throat. “I think he likes you speaking your mind...just not with him,” he said slyly. “A woman who isn't afraid to speak  _ and _ has something worth hearing to say is probably a bit of a novelty to him. But even a novelty loses its charm when she's standing in his path with her hands on her hips, giving him what for,” he chuckled.

“Well,” she said reflectively, “being in both their good books could be handy. Have you seen the way she looks at him? There's something going on there. I wonder if the stories are accurate. Do you think they've already begun their affair?”

They'd reached their bedroom. There wasn't a lock on the door.  Red opened the door, gesturing for her to enter. No lock might become an issue but it wasn't as if they were likely to be attacked in the night. The people of the castle hailed them as heroes.

“I'm not sure,” he responded to her question after they'd both entered the room and he'd closed the heavy door behind them. “But you're quite right, best not to borrow trouble.” He glanced at her worriedly before moving to the polished bronze mirror near the fireplace, examining his unclear reflection closely. He tutted in annoyance. “I'll have to enquire about a barber,” he said in irritation.

She snorted. “Don't be so vain. A beard and woolly hair won't kill you for a little while.”

He sniffed, turning to give her a disapproving look. “No need to get complacent just because we’re on holiday,” he said archly.

“You call this a holiday?” She asked in disbelief, pulling her nightgown out of the rucksack. 

He grinned. “Think of it like a camping holiday. We’re just going that little bit further with it.”

“Well, at least I don't have to empty the chamber pot,” she threw at him tartly. “Turn around,” she held her nightgown up. “I want to change.”

Obedient to her request, he turned, walking across the room to the washbasin and splashing his face with water. “Brr, it's cold, you would think that monstrosity of a fire would warm things up,” he said, throwing a disgusted glance at the fireplace.

The fireplace  _ was _ huge but the room was so big, it barely took the edge off the chill in the air. He'd almost considered trying to move the bed closer to the fire but it was a massive, solid oak construction. It would require more than the two of them to move it even an inch.

“Your turn,” she said, pulling the coverlet aside and diving into the bed, turning away from him so that he had privacy to change as well.

She heard him move around the room, felt a gentle tug on the covers as he retrieved his own night shirt from the rucksack.

Moments later his body weighed the straw mattress down on his side. 

“Good night Lizzie,” his low voice drifted over to her as she felt herself pulled gently down into sleep.

  
She didn't respond, sleep taking her before she had the chance.


	7. Chapter 7

“Lizzie, can I trouble you to locate some embroidery scissors when you're at your little sewing circle?” Red asked politely after breakfast.

They'd gone for a walk around the extensive grounds. It seemed to be the thing the gentry did to occupy their time.

“What do you want embroidery scissors for?” She asked, reaching out to pick some honeysuckle growing against the wall of the gardener's cottage.

“I spoke to a gentleman at breakfast while you were playing nice with Guinevere and her coterie- don't touch that!” He said urgently, slapping her hand away from another flower she had been about to snap off for her collection. It was a pretty, snowy white flower in a bush, shaped like a dome of lace. It looked harmless.

“Why?”

“It's Giant Hogweed. If you get the sap on your bare skin, you'll end up with painful blisters the size of your hand,” he explained. “It's pretty, but not something you want to get up close and personal with.” He smirked at her, “admire from afar, Lizzie.”

She rolled her eyes but continued along the garden path with him, taking his arm again. It was the popular thing to walk arm in arm with your husband or betrothed. They'd met half a dozen couples on the path in the last hour doing the same thing. It was time to go inside though and attend the sewing circle.

“So,” he continued, “as I was saying, I spoke to a gentleman who indicated that they don't really have anything resembling a barber here. Perhaps if we were in France,” he said, sighing heavily. “In any case, I'm going to need to obtain the scissors, so that you can trim my hair,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What?” She asked, startled.

“I'll need you to trim my hair, Lizzie. I've asked for a shaving blade to be brought to our room, I'll be able to take care of that myself but I don't intend to get...what did you call it? Oh yes, _woolly_ ,” he said scathingly.

“Alright then,” she agreed with a laugh, she thought his request was silly.

“Allow an old man his vanity,” he said, patting her hand companionably as they walked.

She winced inwardly. Old man. Really. She'd _seen_ him move when he needed to. The man was as agile as she was. And she liked his middle aged paunch. It was small and suited him. A symbol of his ability to enjoy the richness life offered. He approached everything like a bear at a beehive. The honeycomb was worth it for the occasional sting. He would savor the sweetness and cast aside the pain, never dwelling on it too long.

It made her slightly envious. She felt he was fair more resilient than she was. It would be nice to handle the bumps in life with something even just approaching his aplomb.

 

* * *

 

The halls were chilly in the mid morning. Lizzie made her way to the queen’s drawing room, a shawl she'd obtained from one of Guinevere’s maids draped around her shoulders.

She was met at the door by a heavyset guard in chain main. He looked at her impassively.

“The queen invited me,” she said uncertainly, a little put off by his stare.

He stepped aside though, opening up the big, double bolted wooden doors and waved her inside.

The room was very fine. Completely different from the room she shared with Red or any other room she'd seen in the castle so far. It was a turret chamber, a small, round room with a cosy fireplace and an array of reclining chairs and Turkish cushions scattered around on plush, richly embroidered rugs. There was a loom in the corner and in the center of the room, Guinevere was seated with an assortment of talkative young women. Their chatter had stalled however, as Lizzie entered the room.

She curtseyed, a little bit smug that she was getting the hang of the curtsey, who to bow to and when. She found herself profiling in overdrive, taking note of everything the people around her did. She took her behavioral cues from the women of the castle.

“Good morning, your majesty,” she said respectfully.

The young, royal wife dimpled. “Here, you may simply call me Guinevere,” she offered graciously. “I only invite friends here.”

Hmm, that was a bit sudden, to be claiming her friendship. She wondered where that stemmed from. The girl wasn't an idiot or particularly gullible either. She'd shown flashes of political astuteness the night before. That wasn't the type of person to go giving out the hand of friendship to all and sundry.

So why her and why now?

 

* * *

 

Red sat upright in a wooden chair, the way he held himself, his patrician carriage suggesting he was the king of the castle and not a guest tucked away in some chilly faraway part of it.

He was letting Lizzie trim his hair. Letting her. It wasn't anyone that he'd let this close to him willingly with a sharp blade. She really ought to see it as a compliment, but she was fussing and grumbling as though he'd asked her to walk through the halls naked.

“This is _hard_ , Red,” she complained. “Don't blame me when you see it. I'm not a hairdresser. I could help with a shaver but with a pair of scissors this was always going to be a messy job.”

“I trust your ability to make do,” he said reassuringly. For god’s sake, it couldn't be _that_ bad.

“Alright,” she said reluctantly, withdrawing the scissors from the back of his head. “It's done...at least as well as I can manage it. Go look in the mirror then.”

He rose from his chair and sauntered over to the mirror, taking a close look at his features.

He was horrified. What had she done? His hair looked like a crazily plowed cornfield, all messy, haphazard lines. How could she?

“Will it do?” She asked nervously.

“Absolutely fine,” he said confidently, a little guilty about it. Well it _was_ fine, in that he was going to live with it...until he could get someone else to look at it for him.

“So,” he said, turning back to her, “tell me more about Guinevere. You said she wanted you to call her by her Christian name? That's very...friendly of her,” he said, sharing some of Lizzie's skepticism.

“Yes and she's very interested in Lancelot. She didn't come right out and say it but she wanted to know if Morgan Le Fay spoke directly to him.”

“And what did you tell her?”

Lizzie shrugged, spreading her hands out. “Just that she wanted to know who you were. I was as vague as I could get away with. Who knows what kind of powder keg that triangle is?” Her mouth twitched. “As entertaining a soap opera as this all is, I'm trying to remain as neutral as possible. The last thing I want to do is cause a blow up between Lancelot and Guinevere over what Morgan Le Fay may or may not have said about Lancelot, _never mind_ having to pretend that I don't see what's right in front of me and hoping that Arthur doesn't figure out the illicit liaison going on right under his nose.”

He huffed a laugh in acknowledgment. “Let's hope we’re long gone before the cat is set amongst the pigeons.”

Clicking his tongue absently, he picked up the leather shoes he'd discarded on entering the room. They didn't meet his usual standard of comfort but there was little help for it. He buckled his shoes on, smiling widely at Lizzie. “Speaking of pigeons, that was quite a spot of hawking I had the pleasure of participating in today. Never let it be said that I don't earn my supper here.” He shuddered. “Hawks are graceful creatures but there’s something so _disconcerting_ about seeing one tear a pigeon open in mid air...it's...not something I'm likely to forget.”

She snorted, digging around in the saddlebag for her court dress. “You've been pegged as the man responsible for the two thousand and eight Los Mochis killings. They say you managed to turn two previously harmonious cartels completely against each other and each one believed  you were participating on their side. I've _heard_ the things you convinced them to do to each other. Somehow I don't think a hawk tearing apart a pigeon would turn Raymond Reddington’s stomach.”

She finally located her yellow dress, pulling it out of the bag and looked up to find Red staring at her, his mouth slightly open and what could only be described as a strained look about his eyes.

Her arms fell to her sides. “I'm sorry, I-”

“You know, speaking of drug cartels, I was once on a plane, first class on a commercial flight on my way to Mexico City to broker a weapons deal with the Morales cartel. Not my usual mode of travel but needs must. Anyway, I was sitting back, about to put my feet up when, lo and behold, _three hawks_ were released into the cabin.” He laughed artificially at his own story, an airy titter that made her uneasy.

“Where did they come from?”

“ _Well_ , did you know that in first class on some Saudi airlines you're permitted up to three hawks onboard. Apparently hawking is a popular pastime. Little did I know at the time and believe me, nothing could have prepared me for it. The _screeching_ and the _flapping_. I tell you, it was the most glorious in-flight entertainment I've ever experienced. Watching those perfectly coiffed flight attendants scrambling after three birds of prey let loose in a pressurized metal tube in the sky.” He shook his head, this time his laugh seeming more genuine. “The best moments in life are often unplanned. I'll never forget the looks on the faces in those seats. The furious sheikh who owned the birds...not a drop of shame, just pure indignation, never mind that the fellow had failed to secure his birds properly. It was clearly in his eyes, somebody else's fault.” His eyes brightened. “But there was this one old lady, she just sat there, steadily working her way through a bottle of gin, she didn't seem to notice when one of the birds landed on her _head_. Not a peep from her, just shot after shot of gin, down the hatch.” He grinned. “I'm so glad you chose the yellow dress Lizzie, but maybe you'd like to have a seamstress make you up something in a different color? You don't want to get a reputation as the only female in the castle with no more than  _one_ court dress.”

She shook her head, sighing inwardly. He always knew how to leave her off balance.

“Well, I suppose it won't matter too much, where we’re going.”

Her head snapped up. “Where are we going?”

“Didn't I tell you? The king mentioned that he was planning on summoning Merlin in a few days time. I made up some inane story about needing advice from him regarding something of great importance to me and he was more than happy to allow me to fetch him. It's supposedly only a day and half on horseback. You're permitted to come,” he added with a sly smile.

She ignored the jibe, focusing on the good news. “So let's hope Merlin isn't some hopped up charlatan and actually has some answers.” She unlaced the front of her dress, turning around and pulling the dress halfway down before diving underneath the voluminous folds of her yellow court dress and struggling to get it over her head. Her old dress was a puddle around her ankles and she was stuck with the sleeves of the court dress somehow snagged in her hair. “Help,” she pleaded through the sea of fabric.

Stamping down her annoyance at his amused chuckle, she stood still with her hands up as he assisted her into the dress. “Thanks,” she said crisply, turning to allow him to lace her in.

“Well now,” he said, offering his arm after she was dressed. “I hope you're hungry. I hear there's pigeon pie,” he grinned wickedly as she offered a pained grimace. She took his arm. It was nice, walking through the halls of the castle arm in arm.

She wasn't going to admit that to _him_ though.

  
  
  
  



End file.
